tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67101535711349034502024-03-12T04:31:09.860+05:30The Girl who looked for RainbowsMedhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.comBlogger110125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-43792726012045472202016-08-13T23:53:00.001+05:302016-08-14T12:19:15.765+05:30The Year That Was<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">I remember clearly how I felt this
time last year. I had just booked the tickets to travel to a foreign country
for the first time in my life. Alone. I was excited, yes; also very happy that
the long process of applying to colleges and waiting for replies was finally
over. I had a wonderful prospect at hand and the future looked promising. I was
also finally breaking free from the monotony of the nine-to-five, for a couple
of years at the least. But, at the same time, I was petrified. With the tickets
booked without any return date, it hit me hard that I was leaving, for better
or for worse, and everything would change before I knew it. The feeling didn’t
leave me for all of the next month while I was packing and saying my goodbyes
to family and friends. And it was there in the pit of my stomach all through
the long journey from home to New Delhi to catch the flight that would take me
to a new destination. Thus, a terrified self-conscious young woman arrived in
Copenhagen.</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">My first reaction on arriving in
the city was noticing how beautiful it was. The skies were a pristine blue as
the sun shone brilliantly, accentuating the green of the trees and grass along
the city’s roads. The ride from the airport to my university took around thirty
minutes and I couldn’t keep myself from peering out of the windows like an
excited child. I have traveled extensively in India, bore witness to some of
the most breathtaking views- but the idea of such an aesthetically pleasing
city was new to me. Adding to my amazement also was the near absence of crowds
and traffic on the streets. This was something that had often been told to me
by people who had traveled overseas, but it was only when I witnessed it
myself that it registered. By the end of that day, my nerves had calmed down
considerably. The university campus was spectacularly huge, swanky and
modern.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The administrative staff was
welcoming and cordial. I was provided keys to my own fully furnished studio
apartment. Anybody who has studied in a public Indian university would know how
much of an impact the above might have had on me. It was like Christmas come
early. </span><span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">:) </span></span></span><br />
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizG5MPp3ZzzOsi8m-JE-_m3vG5UNZ2aAzJzgOceQAvLPuwBB6f1wXax0h8UVvNVu5VvTRqDFiBXLGA35VHuLKVPWrUoCVzKOiI68unDUOEmpsz_Xz9m6dQaHeETjmF-6u_572WXZ4FHOzE/s1600/IMG_20150906_193326497_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizG5MPp3ZzzOsi8m-JE-_m3vG5UNZ2aAzJzgOceQAvLPuwBB6f1wXax0h8UVvNVu5VvTRqDFiBXLGA35VHuLKVPWrUoCVzKOiI68unDUOEmpsz_Xz9m6dQaHeETjmF-6u_572WXZ4FHOzE/s400/IMG_20150906_193326497_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKDVjGUw_M3Fwz96HL-24dxj2-1xed86oVYVQXgZZWn64DANQdgsPjtJ2HsvBqLzyD_RR6IWYP48KASzeoT5Z1j5dPCBaE9NTx3toB24rb1_mAy45-DN5SWZc1Qa4URcEI36nI74eN_x5G/s1600/IMG_20150822_194155501_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKDVjGUw_M3Fwz96HL-24dxj2-1xed86oVYVQXgZZWn64DANQdgsPjtJ2HsvBqLzyD_RR6IWYP48KASzeoT5Z1j5dPCBaE9NTx3toB24rb1_mAy45-DN5SWZc1Qa4URcEI36nI74eN_x5G/s400/IMG_20150822_194155501_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Following in the cycle track :)</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqljJZ64Os3jGzjGyHcQVLhnuW1uI9qGAHIu-FO1w9ihOo0EJSVkYnBXIRiQXDdx7XIKd47CYu0oI5EmRdAUaZlP4dvVHLdvxKwFZyo-DMqph9XpkN2cz7ka5Pc_ZC6LPXPlGDX076JZVI/s1600/IMG_20150928_122222300_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqljJZ64Os3jGzjGyHcQVLhnuW1uI9qGAHIu-FO1w9ihOo0EJSVkYnBXIRiQXDdx7XIKd47CYu0oI5EmRdAUaZlP4dvVHLdvxKwFZyo-DMqph9XpkN2cz7ka5Pc_ZC6LPXPlGDX076JZVI/s400/IMG_20150928_122222300_HDR.jpg" width="400" /></a></span></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">One of the lecture buildings at DTU</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">The first couple of months just
flew-by in getting to know my surroundings better, meeting new people and
keeping up with the coursework and the cumbersome housework. The language used
in most public places was Danish and we had to quickly learn how to read and
translate common words (most importantly in the supermarkets and on the public
transport system). The university campus, on the other hand, was totally
multi-cultural and one ended up meeting people from all over the world. I was
once invited to a dinner party where we had to bring dishes from our home
countries to the table and ended up sampling Greek, Italian, Spanish and German
cuisine (I took shaahi paneer and naan). I look back on this as one of my most
colorful learning phases- interacting with people of different cultures and
nationalities provided me with a new perspective on the world and the
oft-invoked term called ‘globalization’. I got to know some interesting
viewpoints people held about my country and also got to break some of the
stereotypes that i had subconsciously collected over the years. All in all, it
was a big learning experience as I became aware of the differences across
cultures and nationalities and also about the things that we all had in common-
goals, concerns, and love for art, music and food. <br />
Autumn gradually gave way to winter as the days started getting shorter and the
nights chillier. I had come to Denmark prepared for brutal cold, complete with
thick woolen socks and mitts. But I soon found out that it was not the cold
that bothered me but the lack of sunlight. Come December and my days began with
a pitch black sky that slowly gave way to only grey clouds before immersing
into darkness again. It was difficult to adjust to this and I could feel my
mood dampen. It didn't affect me for long though as, on consulting with
friends, I was told that a bright and cheerful lamp in the bedroom could make
all the difference. Another thing that worked to raise my spirits was
experiencing my first snow. I remember scanning the weather forecast a week
before to know the exact date when to expect the showers. I had read earlier
that it did not snow much in Copenhagen and when it did, it got usually mixed
up with hail or rain. But, did it snow that weekend! The entire city was
covered in a thick, glistening layer of white. And I observed how the white
also made the nights somewhat brighter, emitting a soft phantom-like glow.
Being the good foreign resident that I am, I made my way to the nearest park
and played with snowballs. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Snow in the nearby park</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">The one drawback to the weather
though was that it had become very difficult to cycle. Even though the tracks
would be cleaned of the snow, the winds and dipping temperatures would turn my
fingers gripping the bike handles to ice. Anyhow, soon there were more pressing
things to fuss about other than mode of transport as with December also came
the end of the semester and with it, you guessed it, examinations. I found
myself spending hours in the library printing notes, going over assignments and
frantically finishing up reports. The written exams themselves were all
open-book, with the use of a computer allowed in some. But preparing for an
all-aid exam was a task in itself as one had to be absolutely thorough with the
methodologies used to tackle every problem. People tend to think that
presence of aid would make the exam easier as there would be no cramming
involved (like in our universities back home), but in my opinion they actually
free the examiner to set up challenges for your analytical ability and not just
test your memory. The Danish grading system is a tough one where one has to
demonstrate understanding of at least fifty percent of the course to obtain a
passing grade. This meant that to obtain a top score, the examinee has to have
a thorough grip on at least ninety percent of the tasks asked for in the
examination. Needless to say, I found this requirement extremely stimulating,
especially after the format at my undergraduate university where scoring above
eighty in a paper was a rarity. I would exit the exam hall thoroughly spent and
exhausted, having exercised my mental abilities to the fullest.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The DTU library in festive mode</span></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small; line-height: 115%;">With the end of the exam week, the
dormitory started emptying out. Christmas was one week away and my fellow students
were looking forward to seeing their families. I, on the other hand, was
excited about witnessing my first Christmas in a foreign country (and was also
secretly praying for snow on the day). The city was adorned for the holiday
season as lights and baubles went up on the streets. A Christmas market was
also set up in the city center and I was very delighted to walk through it and
immerse myself in the festive spirit. There were fireworks every night leading
up to New Year’s Eve and the whole city life was as if suspended. I too found
myself truly relaxing for the first time in four months- taking walks in
Copenhagen’s famous gardens and enjoying the scenery, watching street artists
perform in the marketplace and observing the evening sky light up with the
shimmering fireworks. I had made it through the semester. I had successfully negotiated
the differences between two countries, cultures and technical frameworks. I had
made it through, presumably, for the better. :)</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">The city getting ready for Christmas</span></span><br />
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-37428688554192096392016-08-08T11:38:00.000+05:302016-08-14T12:18:17.012+05:30Grief<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><br />I’m going to write about grief. Now, I’m not entirely sure what I’m going to say here and what I mean to accomplish. But I do know that what I say is going to resonate with an aggrieved soul somewhere and that is all that I need to know.<br /><br /><br />My grief has a vague starting point. Was it when I heard the news? Or was it when I said the goodbye, knowing inexplicably that it was going to be the final one? Or do I trace it back to the periodic realizations of the inevitable loss I would have to face one day? I do not know- it was all of this and much more that contributed to the build up of the dam that has now let go. Before I lead you in any further, I will tell you in summary what this is about: I had a dog and it, she, died. That is all there is to it, if I were to disengage myself from my emotion for a bit, that is all the story has to it. But, alas, being alive and vulnerable to all the experiences life has to offer, I cannot disengage myself from the countless fleeting seconds of joy that filled up and up the cup of my being and left it perilously tilted.<br /><br /><br />It is not my intention to romanticize my grief, to make it a muse for morose poetry or a scalpel to extricate the complicated darkness of the human soul. It is only because of the relatively sunny disposition of this day’s morning that I have found the will to stand away from my grief, for just a while, and examine it. There is nothing romantic about grief anyway, as any body who has been down in it’s depth can testify. It strikes heavily, leaving you panting for mercy, panting for a way out, panting and sweating while your heart shudders and your voice fails. There is nothing romantic about grief.<br /><br /><br />So, let me begin at when I heard the news. I was home after six months; I couldn’t wait to see her. Instead, I saw tears in my father’s eyes when I asked for her. Yes, it would make sense to mark that as the beginning of my grief. Only, it wasn’t. My grief started the moment I had kissed her goodbye because, you know, life has no guarantees and I was going far, far away. I missed her terribly from that moment on. I missed my home, yes, and my parents too- but nothing as desperately and intensely as I missed the touch of her coat and the warmth of her eyes. But amidst all the eye moistening memories and longings, I clung on to the idea of a future reunion. The phone calls made it better. Sometimes in love it is enough to know that the other is happy.<br /><br /><br />Now, I don’t have that respite. She is gone. I don’t believe in an afterlife, or anything spiritual for that matter, and I can’t come to terms with her death. The grief makes me want to stay in bed all the time, all the time conjuring imagery from the past to make me surrender in guilt, remorse and sorrow. It makes me question life, my existence and my inexplicable fortune to be in existence when she is not. This is not an exaggeration, dear reader, this is what goes on in my head as a consequence of loss. You cannot imagine what all will be lost with the death of a beloved. Though these are just the thoughts which, in due course of time I have learned, grief brings along to torture us, in those initial days I drowned myself in them, crying for meaning, crying for redemption.<br /><br /><br />I turned to my parents first. They were heartbroken, too. But they had spirituality to guide them through it- they had recited the Gita into her ears and were sure she was in heaven. They had done their duty to prod her soul gently into the beyond. They were heartbroken and sad, but they had done their duty and it alleviated their suffering. But, no, they would not get another dog now.<br /><br /><br />I turned to my friends. They sympathized and held me while I cried. They listened to me patiently and tried valiantly. But how can I ask them to help me fight against something they cannot fully understand or imagine? Sure, I have lost family before. Sure, they must have, too. But, what is the appropriate code of conduct when that family is canine?They do not know the depth of my grief and I do not know the depth of their understanding of it.<br /><br /><br />Religion, family, friends- none served my purpose. So, I turned to my grief. I had contacted an online support group and they told me not to resist the grief. They told me it was the price I had to pay for being human and of being capable to build the lovely bond that we had had. They told me that this grief was the final frontier of our journey and I had to hold on. They told me that in the end, I would be rewarded with something beautiful that I could cherish for the rest of my life.<br /><br /><br />So, I turned to my grief and decided to plunge into it’s pools.<br /><br /><br />Grief has no constant current: it ebbs and falls. You begin to realize the pattern once you let yourself go with the flow. You begin to realize the difference between grieving and being melancholy. The melancholy is the lowest the grief will depress you but it will also, at times, leave you with enough breathing space to be smiling. Then, there’s the anxiety, the unfounded feelings of foreboding, the deep breathing and staying still till your heartbeats return to normal. But, the worst are the memories, memories of the previous night’s dream that your mind plays relentlessly with the sun rise, invoking grief at the stroke of dawn. It is okay. It is okay to not want to move for a while, to just let the tears flow. It is okay to let the grief take over. Grief has not a constant current.<br /><br /><br />Two months in and grief is like an old pest, still unwelcome but it’s presence somewhat expected and habitual. I wake up, make my bed, put my coffee to brew and wait, subconsciously, for it to peek through some long forgotten crevice. And as I reach for the cookies on the top shelf, a couple of them slip and fall to the ground and I can almost feel her, head rubbing gently against the back of my exposed shins, gobbling up the unexpected treats. Thus, grief joins me for coffee.<br /><br /><br />I am waiting now for the support group’s promises to come true. I want to be happy for all the love she gave me but I can’t right now. So, I will wait and wade through the grief her death left behind. I imagine that one day it will stop hurting enough for me to actually look back and appreciate her for the beautiful thing she was and not for the void she left behind. That is the goal and till then, the grief will have to stay.</span><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-72136925503087209022016-03-11T16:32:00.000+05:302016-08-13T23:58:10.330+05:30Living in Denmark<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Half a year has gone by since I moved to Denmark to pursue a Masters degree at DTU and lazy me has not chronicled anything about this extremely exciting change. That there is a world of difference between how my life used to be before August '15 and how it is now is an obvious conclusion. Denmark and India, or North India to be more precise, are worlds apart when it comes to the obvious geographical and social parameters. But, what do I feel about these differences? And how do they affect my daily life? Are they really so huge or do we tend to augment them using our imagination? I will try here to identify a few and write about them, hoping to make it a light and informative read.<br />
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So, here goes:<br />
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<b>The Food</b><br />
It is only when you step away from the comfort of the home-cooked, adequately scheduled meals that you realize what a life altering factor food is. But, since I am no stranger to living far from the security of mother's morsels, the food factor did not pack much of a rude shock for me. I still eat pretty much the same as I used to back in India (which is whatever can be easily bought and prepared). For those accustomed to the more traditional Indian cooking, Copenhagen does offer most of the ingredients you'd need for a nice meal. The grocery stores are in fact well stocked with ingredients for many types of world cuisine. There's only one thing that I dearly miss: paneer. The stores do have cottage cheese on offer, considering how huge the dairy industry is here, but it is not the same consistency I am used to. I guess the people here are just not too fond of this variant of cheese.<br />
Copenhagen is pretty cosmopolitan when it comes to eating habits. The streets are full of cafes and eateries offering pizzas, french hot dogs, kebabs, samosas, shawarma, falafels, etc. I can't say I've tried much of Danish cuisine except for their legendary open sandwiches, but Copenhagen does have some of the highest rated restaurants in the world. One of the best places I have visited for street food so far is the Paper Island (Papiroen). Set inside an old, vacated paper mill, this place invites street food vendors from all over the world. You can have American, Danish, Italian, Middle-Eastern, Chinese, Japanese, Indian, Turkish.... the list goes on. Even the canteen at DTU offers a variety of multi-cultural cuisine on a daily basis.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Inside Paper Island. Photo Courtesy: <a class="_ZR irc_hol i3724" data-noload="" data-ved="0ahUKEwiH457surjLAhUrIpoKHYmjBB8QjB0IBg" href="http://www.likealocalguide.com/blog/10-alternative-things-to-see-and-do-in-copenhagen/" jsaction="mousedown:irc.rl;keydown:irc.rlk" style="background-color: #f1f1f1; color: #7d7d7d; cursor: pointer; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 16px; text-align: start; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span class="irc_ho" dir="ltr" style="margin-right: -2px; overflow: hidden; padding-right: 2px; text-overflow: ellipsis; unicode-bidi: isolate;">www.likealocalguide.com</span></a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
The bottom line: if you're picky about your food habits, you might have to work a bit hard to replicate the situation you're used to. Otherwise, there is a wide variety of stuff to try and it is mostly delicious!<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>The Weather</b><br />
When I was planning on moving to Copenhagen, the one feedback that I constantly received from all and sundry was that Denmark was going to be bitterly cold and I would not see the sun for weeks. Well, it is nice and sunny today. :) Of course, Copenhagen is not sunny like Tahiti (or New Delhi in March, April, May, June, July --- October) but the Sun does peek through regularly, bathing the city in it's gorgeous glow.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIC6EU2cWx_QHs8Ei-92epJmxT6TmWBA-iJ90cOI2QVSe1hB67unT67PI_5P1nz7EHImJ1xzHFXIbWZsOeEp1xhEg-OcGzxSAe97Wth6t9ABr0XhlVAsvjfcSUX43-mXZnVFZCZsfdvGUz/s1600/IMG_20151002_165831059_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIC6EU2cWx_QHs8Ei-92epJmxT6TmWBA-iJ90cOI2QVSe1hB67unT67PI_5P1nz7EHImJ1xzHFXIbWZsOeEp1xhEg-OcGzxSAe97Wth6t9ABr0XhlVAsvjfcSUX43-mXZnVFZCZsfdvGUz/s320/IMG_20151002_165831059_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sunny in Copenhagen :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The long and dark winter days did not bother me as much as I had imagined they would. It was cold but not the bitterly torturous sub-zero temperature cold other countries in similar climate zones have. I had always enjoyed winter back home and the extended version of it here only made me increase the frequency of warm winter treats and cozy winter reads. This was also my first experience with snow and I loved how the city transformed into a winter wonderland.<br />
The one outstanding feature about Copenhagen's weather though, is it's unpredictability. A day would start off as sunny, proceed to cloudy before mid day, the afternoon would be wet (you might even have hail or snow) and by evening it would have all settled down again.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgstjREahCbYI19TiaYobWO62eWSZmpgvVHlikw05r7D7rg8UvASuir_QEuN_jljpFIKIJ3b_zmJGrkmq6ReAwDX7q4zBAxsEJgQL_M6Y6rB1N_WwxyY1dBm7fNGS6l2V-oeIOvreBb9AF4/s1600/IMG_20160115_160159397_HDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgstjREahCbYI19TiaYobWO62eWSZmpgvVHlikw05r7D7rg8UvASuir_QEuN_jljpFIKIJ3b_zmJGrkmq6ReAwDX7q4zBAxsEJgQL_M6Y6rB1N_WwxyY1dBm7fNGS6l2V-oeIOvreBb9AF4/s320/IMG_20160115_160159397_HDR.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Winter Wonderland in my backyard :)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
The most valuable piece of advice I have received about the weather here is to always, always carry an umbrella/rain jacket and an extra sweater.<br />
<br />
<b>The Population (Or the relative lack of it)</b><br />
Coming from one of the most populated cities in the world, this aspect is a welcome change. Nowhere is this difference more apparent than on the streets. No long queues, no crowding, no jostling, no traffic jams and honking cars and much, much more breathing space. Even when using public transport during rush hour, you are guaranteed to find a place to sit within five minutes. Of course, the story is much different in India. I can only use pictures to describe this.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JYJjcwOyCqikcwiHLhIvsbInst6bUR-YwsT4Nm8xcSn3IBDEJAfBFm5_JK5lE8l_OrJ0lYvUs1yUad3yq6vb5l3F1ro9Ann0Ie5NQzA59ua-2yMCO8MKrL6TKFPMU6_dKhEjReBxs_7k/s1600/IMG_20150827_163335855.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="179" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-JYJjcwOyCqikcwiHLhIvsbInst6bUR-YwsT4Nm8xcSn3IBDEJAfBFm5_JK5lE8l_OrJ0lYvUs1yUad3yq6vb5l3F1ro9Ann0Ie5NQzA59ua-2yMCO8MKrL6TKFPMU6_dKhEjReBxs_7k/s320/IMG_20150827_163335855.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
Denmark, on a whole, has a population of around 5 million people. Approximately 2 million of these are residents of Copenhagen. Compare this with New Delhi where the population is nearly 16 million, if not more. This factor also greatly benefits the Danish society as it obviously makes for much better and efficient administration.<br />
<br />
So that's it for now, a short succinct summary of the most obvious differences between my life in Denmark compared to India. I shall continue this with more about my cross-country experiences.<br />
Tak!<br />
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-10335742634747481092015-09-13T21:03:00.001+05:302015-09-13T21:11:16.878+05:30What's Your Story?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
What's your story, Copenhagen?<br />
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<br />
I have been here for three weeks now and I'm still wondering. You never talk. Never attempt eye contact. Even when I look at you, you shy and look away. What's going on there, inside your head? What mysteries thrive in the criss-cross of your numerous lanes and in the quiet of your green recluses? What does the wind carry when it blows over your cold grey-blue ingresses of water?<br />
<br />
In my room, I can hear the cars zooming down the highway, all day. In the mornings, I can hear the birds chirp. Sometimes, late into the night, I can even hear the rain falling on the cobbled footpaths and the trees rustling with the wind. But, rarely, very rarely do I hear people talk, walking under the artistic street lamps.<br />
Why are you so afraid of people listening in? Your privacy you guard with a knightly fierceness.<br />
<br />
Yet, I've never felt so comfortable being out on my own in the streets, on a crowded bus, riding an elevator, visiting a mall or any of those places where you would typically find yourself surprised by a traffic of people. It's liberating to be just a part of that traffic: not caring about other people's business and, blessedly, not having to care about people caring about your business. Your privacy you can learn to prize.<br />
<br />
Does it get lonely? I am waiting to find out. So far I have been too excited with the freedom to just enjoy solitude to worry about it.<br />
<br />
Copenhagen, I may never fully know your story, but I must thank you for giving me the space to work on my own.<br />
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-19091971783760986472015-08-18T19:32:00.002+05:302015-09-13T21:04:54.998+05:30Of Women and Fiction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the year 1928, Virginia Woolf was called by the Arts
Society at Newnham and the Odtaa at Girton to speak about women and fiction.
The papers delivered by Woolf on the two occasions have since been compiled and
expanded into an essay titled ‘A room of one’s own’. But, hang on, we’re
talking about women and about fiction and this lady is talking real estate? Not
quite. For a woman to be a successful author/writer or poet, she must have a
room of her own and an income of so-and-so per year, Woolf asserted. The
simplicity and directness of this statement makes one not take it too seriously.
She said nothing about passion, dedication, discipline, creativity or any of
those virtues we may expect to have an important role in the development of the
writer. Instead, she drew my attention to two mere resources- a private room
and a steady income. Why? The rationale took me back to a time where female
writers were unheard of, right at the beginning of what we may call the dawn of
women and fiction. The reasons presented in her argument collude and transcend
all that affects, aids and discriminates against her sex. I found myself
riveted to the essay, produced almost a century ago, but very much concordant
with and inclusive of the notions of femininity and feminism that arrest me
today.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To study about women and fiction, Woolf went back to the
earliest of literature about women. But, here, we encounter an issue. There is
no dearth of literature featuring women but only as a subject. There are plenty
of books by men on a range of topics but no books written by women. What were the women doing and why were they
not writing but leaving it to the other sex to represent and document them?
Even the books of history had a minimal mention of them, as if they had been
invisible during all of the wars and revolutions. But there was no shortage of
books written on or about women, studies on the character of women, on how to
deal with them and understand them. At this point, I began to wonder- are we
really two variants of the same species? Or did the women just show up one day,
from Venus perhaps, and demanded that men study, tolerate and control them?
There is also a certain vehemence with which men, irrespective of country, race
or religion, have all rushed at some point of history to denounce women and
introduce ideas of inferiority.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Forgive my unintended misandry for an instant while we
examine the position of the average person: A person, to be successful in any
industry, must possess a certain degree of self-respect and confidence. We must
also agree to the fact that if the average person is communicated a notion of
‘being better’ than, let’s say, another person, this perception of self-worth
automatically increases. Now, think of the average man and think about him
being told that ‘he’ is the superior sex. Oh, that would be a nice boost for the ego,
wouldn’t it? An entire half of the population diminished and swept away in a
matter of sentences. And this sentiment was echoed when Woolf tried to find the
reason for why there were so many men writing their views on women. For a long
period in history, the woman has served as a mirror to the man- a mirror that
enlarging their self-image and feeding the idea of superiority. This is the
premise of a patriarchal society. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the idea of superiority of males over females- enough has
been said and proven already. Yet, the idea never leaves us. It finds its way
across generations and cultures to restrain the woman or to falsely implicate
the man in to pre-defined, stereotypical roles. The worst consequence of this
school of thought is obviously the mass prevalence of female feticides and
favoritism exhibited towards the male child. It is how we treat the child that
determines how society functions in the future. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, going back to the era Woolf had me in; I find that
the woman had not written any book to defend herself.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The question of there being no literature produced by women
in that period can be attributed to two factors- illiteracy and poverty. She
was illiterate because there was no place for a woman of words and knowledge in
a household run on patriarchy. The lack of education again guaranteed a
disability for her to fend for herself. Also, the laws and practices of
inheritance made it impossible for her to come in possession of money. Hence,
she was poor and dependent. The force restricting expression of the female
creative power was the patriarchal society.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When a society is governed by rules written by a certain
section; the other section would always find themselves living within the
confines of roles chalked out for them. The woman found that the masculine
opinions of what she could and could not do- often unsupported by fact but
flung casually at her nevertheless, blotted her formative years and carved
holes into the pillars of her self-confidence. Could an artist be born this
way? One may argue that the woman need not pay attention to these external
factors so out of her control and focus on her own artistic intent itself. But,
Art is born out of sense of self and , quoting Woolf, ‘it is precisely the men
or women of genius that mind most what is said of them’. Even so, let us
consider that she somehow ignores what is said about her ability and talent,
but the lack of money and education coupled with the abundance of domestic
responsibility were reasons enough to dissuade her. It were only the distinguished, privileged
and wealthy ladies who could afford to
write poetry or literature- but even then, other forms of Art were strictly out
of her reach. Their works were marked with traces of feminism that were,
without a doubt, necessary. Their creative energies could have been directed
elsewhere, to other aspects of Life, in general, yet they chose to divest them
on the more pressing issue, may be to reclaim their voice. The woman wrote neither
philosophy nor odes to nature or love but tales about the injustice of her
oppression. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Towards the end of the eighteenth century, the female author
discovered that she could turn to the letter for bread. But, of course, no
honourable woman could be found making a career out of being a wordsmith. Even
Austen hid behind pseudonyms. But now her work was free from aggression
directed towards men or pity on her own self. With the dawn of the nineteenth
century, she finally began seeing writing as an art form, not merely as a tool
for self-expression. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To what extent can we disentangle the personal from Art? It
can be argued that every creative endeavour attempted by a person provides an
insight to that person- his views, memories, general ideals and ideas of life.
Hence, in this context, literature can be said to serve as a sort of a mirror
to society. Thereby, it makes sense to draw an analysis of literature over the
years to gauge the trends in gender perception with time. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The relationship between women as represented in
literature/Art can be compared and examined for its similarities with reality. A
lot many pieces leave the reader wondering if two women can ever share the bond
of friendship without jealousy and competition. Literature has had several
examples of men as friends, bosses, helpers, etc. of other men. But, to sketch
women in relationships other than those they share with men was a task not
attempted as often. As Woolf wrote, ‘…seen only in relation to the other
sex…how small a part of a woman’s life is that…how little can a man know, when
he observes it through black or rosy spectacles…’. Hence, the representation of
the woman cannot be deemed to be objective in such a scenario. Authors such as
Mary Carmichael (among others of the likes of Woolf, Austen and the Brontes,
etc) attempted to another dimension to literature by portraying the oft
obscured domestic life. Great novels had been written about splendid events
like wars and catastrophes but seldom about the trivialities that one observes
in a household or about the aspirations of common women. So, May Carmichael,
when she intended to write about women, had to set out on an expedition to
explore, understand and grasp the vanities, peculiarities, ambitions and
insecurities of her own sex as well as to observe the other sex and the
relationships between them. She wrote about two women, their friendship, their
respective domestic lives and refreshingly, their shared ambition outside of
domesticity. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I do not wish to promulgate
a vision of books written by women, for women and about women. But, for a long
period in history, we have gone without appreciating the complex and sensitive
bond shared between two women which is not influenced by the men in their
lives.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
The great mind, I am convinced, is androgynous. The
accomplished writer writes unconscious of their own sex. You do not read a
great work of art and immediately conclude that it was the work of a man or a
woman. Yet, if we observe the literary world around us, we would find numerous
examples of gender being assigned to different types of literature and cinema. The
great artist knows that men and women are the ends of the same spectrum, not
opposing factions. If we see the truly prominent and lasting works of art, like
Shakespeare, we would find that they have been the ones conceived by a mind
unconscious of sex- the androgynous mind. (May be that is why there has been
unending speculation over the Bard’s gender over the years.)</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There is a great satisfaction in seeing the sexes as parts of a whole and none
as an end within itself. The fully developed mind does not think specially or separately
of gender. </div>
<o:p></o:p><br />
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-58280640260501404762015-07-27T14:57:00.000+05:302015-08-18T19:33:44.445+05:30A Tiny Tale for the Hopelessly Romantic II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>I do not usually write stories dripping with such corniness but I bad been aching to get pen on paper again and this happened. I like to tell myself it at least made good writing practice. Please forgive me, I have been on a diet of Grey's Anatomy and Desperate Housewives (though the housewives were at least capable of murder). So, if you were able to suffer through </i><b><a href="http://medhakapoor.blogspot.com/2013/08/a-tiny-tale-for-hopelessly-romantic.html" target="_blank">this</a></b><i>, here is, what you may call, a part two...</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
Nothing would have felt better than wrapping him in a tight embrace and hunting between those lips for sugar, Emily contemplated. Kissing him was the one things that had the power to transform and uplift every thing- her mood, her day, her messy schedule- it was like an instant fix trick. Just go up to him, lock lips and everything would be better.<br />
<br />
Yet, there she was, watching his silent profile, not daring to make a move, not being able to traverse the two steps that lay between them. The air was laden with the weight of the argument the room had just witnessed. Echoes of their angry screaming resounded off the bare walls, the darkening windows, the cold dinner...<br />
<br />
It had been the fifth day in a row. Fighting seemed to be the only thing they were capable of, lately. Their house was a mess and they were always too edgy and irritable to do anything about it. It was just heartrendingly sad, thought Mark. He was so certain that this woman and this relationship would be so much more than unrealistic expectations and angry nagging and broken vases. He was sure he had found the perfect mix for a calm and happy life. How could he have known that he would find himself staring at a cold, hardened face at the end of every day in spite of everything he had done to make sure he wouldn't end there? They had been so perfectly happy. Not even the grimmest of cynics would have predicted such an outcome when they had decided to move in together three months back. But, then, that was the rosy period, wasn't it? Even cynics see cupids at that time. If only they could find a way back to that carefree happiness again- back to the stage when just being there for each other was enough...<br />
<br />
He looked at Emily. He could see tears forming in her eyes. No, he couldn't let her cry- she'd always use the hurt as a weapon, always to get him to concede. He must look away and not melt with the droplets making their way down her cheeks.<br />
<br />
Every now and then it'd fall apart. Over 'nothing'. It would be 'nothing'- only it carried with it the weight of countless disappointments and broken promises and emotional outbursts that they had gathered over the past few months, Like a small rock sliding down a snowy slope- a little nothing in the beginning gathering force and momentum to transform into a destructible.<br />
Emily didn't want to cry. She was sad, yes. And angry. But, most of all, she was tired of facing the menacing avalanche of their mutual pain again. Which was why the tears fell anyway. It wasn't a way of establishing control but, on the contrary, an expression of her relinquishing it. She wanted somebody, anybody to come fix this. She wanted Mark to come over and hold her, as tightly as could be.<br />
<br />
He was watching her from the corner of his eye. He could stay put and wait for her to concede and apologize. Or he could go over right now and put an end to this himself. If he stayed it could possibly register a victory of sort for him- a deterrent to future arguments on similar grounds. If he went they'd be stuck in this grey area again. No victories, no conclusions. But, it would make the crying stop.<br />
<br />
Emily felt a gush of warmth through her being as her wish was granted. As much as she'd wanted it, she hadn't expected it to happen so soon. She looked searchingly at his face, trying to find a way into his thoughts.<br />
<br />
'I'm sorry, Em. I...', he began.<br />
<br />
'No, it really wasn't your fault, Mark', she sobbed, 'I was too vicious in my attack.'<br />
<br />
Mark paused. Now that the words he had been wanting to hear for the past five days had been offered to him, he felt neither relief nor closure. Yes, he knew that it wasn't his fault. At least, not entirely. It didn't make him feel any better to hear it from her. It wasn't about finding and proving where the faults lay...<br />
<br />
'I'm just a horrible person. I did not mean to pick on you like that, but I just... I just felt so angry, Mark... because I feel so helpless... It's just so hard, these days...'<br />
<br />
This was where the problem was. This bleak, self-defeatist view of life. It wasn't about mistakes or promises or fulfilling expectations- it was this insecurity about dealing with something that had turned out to be much more complex than they had bargained for. It was about fear and their helplessness at not being able to escape from it...<br />
<br />
'Hey...', Emily blew her nose and turned his face to hers, forcing him out of his reverie.<br />
<br />
'Do you... do you sometimes think we're making a mistake?'<br />
<br />
'Why?'<br />
<br />
'Because all that we ever seem to do is fight!'<br />
<br />
'Every couple fights, Em!'<br />
<br />
'I know... But, I never wanted us to be like any other average couple. I thought we were different. I even took pride in it...', Emily went on, giving voice to the very fears that had been tormenting Mark a few minutes back.<br />
Mark was silent, lost in thoughts again. What if they too were meant to be only another addition to the nameless collective of failed and unhappy relationships? Maybe there wasn't anything like a perfect relationship. It's all the stuff of fairy-tales. Santa was a lie, after all. Did that mean that the satisfaction they had been seeking for through much of their adult life was going to elude them forever?<br />
<br />
Finally, he looked up with an air of certainty. 'Hey, look, Em, I'm as scared and clueless as you are. I don't know why we end up fighting like this. I don't know where all the viciousness comes from. May be its stress. May be its worry. Or disappointment...'<br />
<br />
'I'm not disappointed in you, Mark, I'm disappointed in us...'<br />
<br />
'Yes, but, you don't need to be. Not yet. This is the beginning. I know we've been programmed to look for happy endings but, I'm thinking, may be, there is no happy ending. May be we can only start our journeys faithfully and keep making efforts to stay on it... Let's not get too ahead of ourselves, looking for destinations, right?'<br />
<br />
Emily looked at him silently, eyes urging him to go on.<br />
<br />
'What I mean to say is, the fact that I made a mistake and let you down doesn't mean that I don't care about you or our relationship. Being in a loving relationship does not mean never making mistakes... We are bound to make them... But we mustbbe able to sustain through it... I know we have let each other down... It may not have been our intent... But it doesn't mean we don't love each other... As long as we remember that, we'd be fine... After all, it's only minor scuffles... Nothing we can't shake off...'<br />
<br />
Emily managed a smile. It made sense. Feeling much lighter and happier, she asked, eyes twinkling, 'Know what kept going through my mind while we were fighting?'<br />
<br />
'What?'<br />
<br />
'How much I wanted to just come over, give you a huge hug and shut those lips of yours.'<br />
<br />
'Now that is what I was talking about!', Mark replied, chuckling.<br />
<br />
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-76571815704703924122015-07-08T19:12:00.002+05:302015-07-27T14:57:59.823+05:30Up the Stairs<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">It's an overcast day. We have been having a lot of these lately- dark grey clouds wander over to increase our rates of perspiration and excitement by threatening to burst, only to depart after a mild, blink-and-miss drizzle. Sensing a pattern, I decide to make the most of the cool evening air by strolling around on the terrace. It has been a while since I've been back home but the dismal weather had kept me from venturing out on the terrace. Plus, Carey and I have enough of a playground in the driveway & the leisurely evening walk. However, today, we hobble up the stairs to the terrace. Hobble, because the right hip has gone somewhat stiff (I read online that that's genetic in GSDs) or maybe because we have to sniff out the rats lurking around the old items stacked alongside the stairs. Either way, its one excited, yet slow, step at a time.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The terrace is a beautiful, large expanse of concrete and brick littered with Carey's hoard of items to play fetch with (three dried mango seeds, two chewed sticks, one empty cup of yogurt and so on...). Though the view is not of the lush green fields we had been habituated to in the old house, the Ashoka trees and flower laden creepers give us nothing to complain about. It is a quiet, peaceful neighborhood and birds begin to gather around as we start play. Carey acts as goalkeeper as I proceed to kick the 'ball' (in this case a mango seed) around the 'park'. You'd think an old dog would grow out of such behavior but this one's still a kid at heart (and shouldn't we always be, too?). So, it is kick and guard, kick and guard till I notice big, round droplets forming on the ground- Rain! Run for cover! Carey is loathe to return- she doesn't have to worry about drenched clothes and impropriety; and the showers add the zing to her game- but, return we must.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Now, I'm relaxing on a bean bag with the AC on for the rain died almost as soon as we rushed downstairs and the dog has gone to sleep clutching an old ragged cloth in her mouth. But, with the trip to the terrace, at least my will to write has arisen.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Carey is now a senior dog- she had her tenth birthday in February. She is happy and healthy and greets each day with a wagging tail. It is nice to have a dog grow up in front of you- you get to become acquainted with its habits and get a fair idea of what might be scheming in the old bugger's head. The wily pooch also learns to tolerate your moods and the household's charter of 'Crime and Punishment' gets firmly embedded in its head (along with the loopholes and clauses, of course). As for vision and hearing loss, I do actually recall Carey not paying much attention to instructions involving sitting still and not stealing my food from the table- but it may be a strange case of selective hearing or just good old doggy wisdom.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Anyhow, the point I am trying to drive home here is that your dog (or cat or parrot or whatever) deserves to grow old in a healthy, loving environment. That is the least you can do to repay unconditional love and undying loyalty. It pains me to see people abandoning their pets just because they get 'too big', 'too old' or 'too sick'. A pet is not a toy or accessory for your household- it is a member and when you bring one home, make sure the commitment lasts through its lifespan (unless it is a tortoise).</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Respect Life- all of us have a one way ticket. </span><br />
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-1446003393834307612014-11-30T21:29:00.000+05:302015-07-08T19:13:29.304+05:30The Way Home<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">I had always wanted to tell this
story. My story
is an old one, as old as our country in fact. This means that it has been heard
and told for years, passed on from one family member to another. I can say I
was born into this story, like people are born into poverty or privilege as
their fate demands, I inherited this fantastic tale, fed into me since infancy
in bits and pieces till I was able to comprehend the whole of it. And what a
gift of ancestry it is: dearer than precious stones or sprawling mansions, for,
when the times turn dark and I find myself unsure, I turn to this heirloom and
draw strength…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">“For it is only when you find
yourself face to face with Fear, it's menacing gaze reducing your insides to a
churning liquid, do you discover the will and the means to reclaim yourself.
And that is Courage.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The marketplace was secluded and
gloomy. Dev, the owner of a general cloth shop regarded the dreary scene with
despair and sighed. He remembered the crowds that would throng the place at
this time of the day but now those happy times were gone. Born the son of a
Tehsildar, Dev had been forced to take up the command at a young age with the
untimely demise of his father. Giving up his dream of pursuing studies in
Medicine, he had established the shop and sent his younger brothers to Medical
school instead. Being able to single-handedly support a family had made him
into something of an achiever at a very young age and his character had
prospered with the responsibility.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But today, Dev was sad. He knew
that things would never be the same again, especially with the communal hatred
that was spreading. The village of Mamukanjan, District Sialkot, was rapidly
emptying itself of its non-Muslim population. Packing their bags and leaving
for the new India where they said life would be prosperous for the Hindus under
Nehru’s command. It was August and the air was damp and heavy. Dark clouds were
prone to gathering without a notice to unload their burden on the ground. But
the dark clouds that were threatening the life of the villagers were different.
With the news of the Independence had also come the announcement of the
formation of a new nation, Pakistan, a separate country to be chalked out for
the Muslim population with Jinnah at the helm of affairs. Dev failed to understand
why they needed a separate country. Hadn’t they co-habited peacefully all these
years? Separation on the basis of religion! What difference did religion make,
after all, they all ate the same bread, drank the same water and faced the same
problems of an ordinary domestic household. ‘The only difference is that, in
the evening, my neighbor goes to the mosque and I, to the temple…’, mused Dev
as he closed down the shop for the day and walked towards his home.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">On entering the house, Dev
perceived an atmosphere of tension and fear. His wife, mother and sisters were
all gathered in the courtyard, silent and still. All eyes turned to him as his
made his way towards the cot. He looked searchingly at their troubled faces. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘The Khannas have also left. They went
this morning. Now, all my sisters have gone’, it was Nirmal, his young bride
who was the first to speak. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Son, they are saying that once
Pakistan comes into being, not a single Hindu will be left alive here. Pakistan
is only for Muslims. No one else will be allowed.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘But, mother, how can it be so?
Haven’t we been living here since so many decades? Father was the tehsildar of
this village! Everybody knew and respected him. He has done a lot of work for
this village. We have as much right to live here as the Muslims. Besides, who
will ask us to leave?’, Dev retorted, splashing some cool water on his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘The Muslims will want us to leave,
brother. Yes, our very neighbors. I have heard that they have become violent in
the cities. Talks of the new country has injected them with venom against us.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Oh, that’s nonsense, sister!
Absolute nonsense! What will our neighbours ever gain by driving us out? Let’s
not fill our heads with such ideas. It is all propaganda to spread hatred. A
departing move made by the British to upset us. Hindus and Muslims in separate
countries! Why, there are much more Muslims on the other side of the border
than there are here, how can they all come here?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Dev, your sisters are terrified!
Your wife is expecting! You must understand we have no way of protecting
ourselves in these troubled times. What if the rumors are true? What if they
turn us out? Oh, if only your brother was here! He must have news of what is
going on there. Have you received any letter from him?’, Dev’s mother asked,
referring to his younger brother who was at that time studying in Ludhiana, on
the other side of the proposed border. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘No, mother, I have not received
anything from him yet. But we really must not worry. There is nothing to be
afraid of. But, if you want, I will enquire about arrangements for a safe
passage, if the need shall ever arise. Now, shall we have some dinner?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Unfortunately for Dev and his
family, the need arose too soon. It was September, the 4<sup>th</sup>, 1947. Raj,
one merchant like him, came with the news.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Dev Bhai, you must leave. We must
all leave immediately. I am leaving today itself’, he panted as he hurriedly
shut down his shop. ‘What are you staring at me for? Run!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Raj, what happened? Why this
urgency all of a sudden? Won’t you tell me?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘No time, Dev. Just listen to me.
These scoundrels are setting fire to every Hindu home in the village. They are
looting every shop of ours they can find and hacking our women and children
with their swords. Dev, you must go!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">He felt himself starting to
tremble. His palms grew clammy and a cold wave ran down his spine. He rushed to
Raj and grabbed him by the shoulders. Looking deep into his eyes, he said,
‘Swear to me, Raj, that everything you are telling me is verified. Is there no
other way left for us?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Dev, I swear on my family. Now,
leave me, I have to go. Talk to a truck driver as soon as you can for passage!’,
Raj replied before disengaging himself and rushing away. As Dev watched his
retreating figure, terror gripped him. How would he arrange a safe passage on
such short notice? They had not even packed anything like the other families.
He ran down the streets to where the trucks were stationed and spotted Salim,
one of his neighbours. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Salim Mia, we cannot find a way to
escape. Will you take us?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘No, I’m sorry, you are too late. I
am already taking one family and it will be too difficult to hide another.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘But there is no other way! We must
leave now or perish!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">But the bulky Muslim continued to nod
his head. Then, Dev did something he had never imagined himself capable of. He
took off his turban and laid it down at the man’s feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Salim Mia, the life of my family
is in your hands. Please, I beg of you, show some kindness to your neighbors.’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Salim regarded the helpless figure at his
feet. That he would be caught if trying to help Hindus was certain, but he
could not being himself to refuse the man.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Okay, Dev, I will be waiting with
my truck here. You must come with your family in one hour at the latest. If you
are not here at the end of the hour, we will leave’.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">No sooner had Dev heard the words
that he sprinted, as fast as his legs would carry him. Cries of
‘Allah-oo-Akbar’ were filling the street. He could discern an orange glow on
the horizon which could not be the sun setting. ‘Oh God, it has started!’. He
reached home and directed everybody to pack everything they could in two
suitcases and leave. His wife and mother were appalled. There were way too many
valuables in the house to be stuffed into two suitcases. But, it was either
survival or wealth and they chose the former.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Dev knew that to expect a safe and
uninterrupted passage was out of the question. But, none of his foresight could
have prepared him or his family for the sights that unfolded in the streets.
Mutilated, mangled bodies lay strewn along the roads, blood flowing down in
small drains. Terrified, the family huddled together in a corner, trying to be
as inconspicuous as possible. They had forgotten everything about the shop,
house and treasures they had left behind. Survival was the only thing on their
mind, to stay safe and together till they reached India.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Who goes there? Stop the truck!
Stop the truck!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">A mob of armed men had gathered
around them, bringing the truck to a halt. A tall Pathan got up immediately and
went to talk to who looked like the leader of the mob. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Yes? What do you want?’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘We have information that there are
Hindus in this truck!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Dev’s insides went cold. The thing
he had been dreading the most had occurred. He looked sideways at his mother,
wife and sisters. Their faces were a deathly white. He could see his mother’s
lips move inaudibly in prayer. Despite the blood pounding in his ears, he
strained them to catch the conversation going on on the road. And what he heard
was unbelievable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘We will not let you touch any
person here!’, shouted the Pathan.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">‘Yes, if you want to get to them,
you will have to go through us!’, shouting another, brandishing a lathi. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Dev could scarcely believe the
words that were being uttered by those men. They were willing to sacrifice
their lives for them! Humanity was not dead, after all, despite the
hate-spreaders. He tried getting up from his crouching position but was stopped
by a man with a command to stay where he was. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">The armed Pathan was glowering
menacingly at the men below. Someone asked Salim to step up on the gas and
slowly, they felt the claws of death release their grip from upon them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Two months had elapsed since their
escape from Pakistan. They had covered thousands of kilometers by every mode of
transport possible to reach a small village near Amritsar, a township in the
‘Indian’ Punjab. As the days had gone by, the excitement of escape had been
replaced by a deep sense of irascible loss. Fear for their lives had been
replaced by fear for the days that were to come.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">Dev often wondered how they would
sustain themselves. This new country they found themselves citizens of, their
new ‘homeland’, was completely alien to them. Yet, they would have to embrace
the land as their own. Times had changed irreversibly. A few weeks after
reaching India, their family had been jolted by news of their house having been
completely ravaged by none other than their neighbor, Salim Mia’s family. Yes,
times had changed irreversibly. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It was while travelling through
Punjab that Nirmal had gone into labor. They had to halt immediately and seek
help from the villagers. And thus, miles away from what they had once
considered home, in an obscure village, after months of running to protect
their lives, Dev and Nirmal were blessed with their first progeny, a daughter
they chose to name Vijayalakshmi. Now, for a girl to be born in this country
and that too in times of trouble would normally be a matter of concern. But,
not to this family. To them, the female form was the embodiment of the power
which grants and sustains life. The birth of a daughter was a definite sign
from the Universe that a new life had been granted to them, a life which they
must lead with sincerity and virtue to prosper. And hence, the name
Vijayalakshmi: the Goddess of Victory…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">From Punjab, the family set off for
Kanpur and tried to establish an enterprise. But it failed and they had to
leave the town. They then travelled to Agra where the leather industry was
blooming. Dev set up a business of leather balls and goods but the chemicals
used in the making gave him asthma and he had to give it up. Never the one to
be deterred, he tried his hands at various other small enterprises before
settling on a general merchant shop. A humble venture, in comparison to his
business in Pakistan, but dedication to work enabled them to raise, feed and educate
a family. Steadily, the venture grew and he was able to marry off his sisters
and move to a comfortable, independent lodging. Throughout the tough ordeal, he
had not given up his love for reading and writing and had inculcated the same
in his daughter and three sons. Oh, and also, he was never one to put the blame
on Muslims. Allah is great, he would often say, he is watching all our actions
and his justice will be final. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">So, this is how the story goes. It
is not something very remarkable or extraordinary. But, then, no story is that
way by itself. We lend greatness to the tales of our everyday lives by
extracting from them a message, a moral to be learnt and imbibed. The
astonishing thing about this account for me is the realization of the fact that
my grandparents, great grandmother, grand aunts and uncles were, at the end of
the day, very plain and simple people. Yet, they pushed themselves to get the
better of a gargantuan task when the need arose. My grandparents were young,
way too young to face the uprooting, the killings and the poverty. They
portrayed a courage and sensibility way beyond their years. Stripped of all
material possessions, cheated by the people they trusted, they were faced with
the daunting task of raising and caring for a family. It was an uphill climb
throughout. But, they made it. I shudder to think what would happen if I found
myself in their situation. Would I have the strength? Or the valor? We cry and
crib over every minute thing that does not go our way. We are so tied down by
weight of our assets that every small loss upsets us. How, then, does one react
to a complete wipeout? This is where these memoirs give me inspiration. The
story of how my family came into being is testimony to the fact that it is not
the wealth you possess but the ethics you carry that make you. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;">It is not in the nature of Life to
be fair. It is your reaction to the obstructions it throws in your way that
decide your destiny. And there isn’t any mountain high enough that a man with
will and vision cannot climb. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div>
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-44704853594280047752014-06-14T21:11:00.002+05:302014-11-30T21:37:13.120+05:30In Troubled Waters: Nocturnal Adventures of the Delinquent<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; text-align: justify;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;">Akash, Amrita and Sanchit stared at the empty abode of the Old Monk lying in front of them. They had just finished singing cheesy Bollywood numbers accompanied with dance moves to suit the occasion and put many a Khan to shame and were, understandably, exhausted. The air had just recovered from their cacophonous assaults on it and was settling heavily into a calm, forcing them, in turn, to ponder.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; text-align: left;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘So-o, my warriors, what’s next on our menu? A game of charades, is it, my lady?’ Akash had not yet bid goodbye to the Monk.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘So, this is it, then? This is how it is all going to end, isn’t it?’ Sanchit had, well, bid goodbye to a lot of things.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘What are you talking about, Dodo?’ replied Akash, mildly perturbed with the disturbance to his sweet farewell.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘I’m talking about our careers, you idiot! There are less than twenty four hours remaining for the Thermo Final and look at us! Look at what we’ve done!’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Roop tera, Mastana… Pyaar mera, Deewaana…’, ventured Amrita, smiling to herself, no doubt imagining herself to be a Bollywood diva.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Come on, guys! It’s 9 PM already! Let's get the heck out of this lab and back to our rooms.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Bhool koi hum se na…’ Akash joined in, never one to disappoint when the demand for music arose.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Guys! 9 PM!’ Sanchit held up his wrist for emphasis. Then noticed that there was no watch on it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Wait, what? 9 PM? Christ, I need to go back to the hostel or they will chuck me out!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘No hostel-wostel, Amrita. You stay here, who will teach us?’ Akash’s pragmatism had started its return journey.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Are you nuts, Akash? How can we stay here? It's dirty, dark and creepy. Besides, we would be breaking a gazillion rules.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Amrita jumped to her feet and started looking around for her stuff. Her stuff, having a mind of its own that night, attempted to spin out of her reach, thereby making her come in contact with Akash’s shoe and embrace the ground in a resounding thud.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Ughhhh!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Oye!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Hahahahahahahaha!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Shut up, Akash! Oh lord, I’m in no condition to go back. One look at my face and they are going to have my parents on the next flight to Delhi!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘There, there, you see? I told you, Akash, we are doomed. Doomed! Thermo Final tomorrow and unlike you geniuses, I only had an eight on my mid semester paper. And just look at us now, cannot even walk straight, unbelievable! Frigging incredible! Who’s idea was this, anyway? I must say it was stupid in the extremes, I have never heard of a dumber thing, I…’, rambled Sanchit, on and on and on, hardly stopping to breathe, his hands gripping either side of his head.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Amrita and Akash regarded each other somberly. An unspoken idea was exchanged. Together, their heads turned to look at Sanchit’s pathetically blabbering figure.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Tanhayeee… tanhayeee… meelo hai phaili hui tanhayee…’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The monologue hit a roadblock.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘You rascals!!!’ he cried, flinging a shoes in Akash’s direction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Hahahahahaha!’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Such is the power of Bollywood music, it takes only a carefully selected track to flip the atmosphere of a room. The clouds of despair and desolation lifted from the chemistry lab and the three offsprings of trouble looked upon their situation full of smiles and optimism. Donning their thinking caps, they tried working out a favorable solution to their situation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘So, here’s what we will do. The night watchman comes in once at 10 PM to check the locks on these rooms. He is an indolent fool. He will not approach the doors but only regard them from a distance to confirm the presence of a lock-like object. So, I think it is safe to stay inside, provided we are very, very quiet.’ said Akash.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Okay, but, we will need the lights on, to study…’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Hmm, Sanchit, we will keep them shut till 1030 at least, just to be safe and then we can switch them on. We can study quite comfortably here, too. Look, there are textbooks on that shelf. Who knows we might find a copy of the paper or something, here’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Okay, Akash, but how will we get out of here in the morning without getting noticed?’ said Sanchit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Ah, that is the tricky part. Hey, but why am I the one doing all the thinking here, huh? What kind of engineers are you dumbasses?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Engineers, yes, we are very able ones indeed and the answer to that lies in the noble Art of Jugaad, which we must practice when the hour calls for it’, replied Amrita wistfully.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chetan Singh strolled down the empty corridor leisurely. He had just treated himself to a juicy paan and the flavor had begun to dissolve in his mouth. Swinging his wooden stick as he walked, he tapped at the closed doors, merely to hear the sound reverberate in the empty space. It was the same monotonous story every day, so he had taken to inventing little games to keep himself entertained on these night wanderings. For instance, today, he was looking for an unmarked expanse of wall to decorate with a delectable cocktail of betel juice and saliva.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The laws of the Universe dictate that when you really, really want something, all of the mystical forces around conspire to make you obtain it. Little did Chetan Singh know that his need for excitement was to be answered generously by the Universe that very evening. Having reached outside the Chemistry lab (where else?), he had just prepped himself to propel the paan projectile when he heard a low, soft, hardly-there sneeze. On any other day, Chetan Singh would have just pretended not to have heard anything and left the scene. After all, who wants to go messing around in dark, empty rooms? Who knows what creatures might be lurking around the corners. Chetan Singh never flattered himself with any notions of bravado. He did not like surprises, they made his heart flutter. So, Akash was right about his indolence as a security guard, but, tonight was about the mystical forces messing around with their lives and shuffling things up. Hence, Chetan Singh had no option but to let Destiny guide him to the majestically worn out door of the Chemistry lab and beat at it with his stick.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">*thud* *thud* *thud*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Who’s there?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">*thud* * thud * *thud*</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Three pairs of paranoid eyes widened in fear inside. Slouched in unflattering positions on the ground, they dared not bat an eyelid for the predator was in such proximity. It was Akash who had sneezed, as a reaction to some evil smelling concoction stored in one of the many beakers lying around. He reclined curled up on the floor, his head between his thighs, trying with all his might not to let his nose betray him again. But it did. And then, again. Amrita had given up breathing, she was praying to the gods to convert her into an inanimate object.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chetan Singh mentally calculated the risks involved in opening the door. At best, it could be just a dog, having missed the closing bells and forced to spend the night inside. There could be absolutely no possibility of it being a robber or something similar: you don’t get those folks in labs, the staff rooms are the places of interest for them. Whatever it was, man or animal, it had to be a product of the college itself. Unless, it was some phantom. But ghosts didn’t sneeze, did they? There is only one way to find out, said Chetan Singh to himself and unlocked the door.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Sanchit’s heart beat so furiously it would have made Bolt reconsider his pace. A measly wooden desk separated the predator from the prey. His cerebral muscles were on overtime, trying to figure out the best excuse to extricate themselves from the situation. ‘We are being pursued by Dawood. This was the best place to hide.’ Or, ‘we were spying on the teacher and the lab assistant. We think they are having an affair’. He could just make the faint profile of his foe, fumbling around in the dark, trying to locate the light switches.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Chetan Singh had just realized that he had hit gold. Hidden inside the lab was no normal man or animal, but a bunch of students and, judging by the combination of aromas in the air, it was a couple, an inebriated, mischievous couple taking advantage of the college premises. Oh, his colleagues were going to be so jealous of him tomorrow. Now, if only he could find that damned switch…</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Amrita realized the risk she was exposed to if she allowed herself to be caught in this position. The guys would face action too, but for her the consequences would be excruciatingly painful. She needed to act quickly. Reaching in to the back pocket of her jeans, she took out her can of Mace and leapt forward to spray it into his face. His cries confirmed that she had got his eyes, as intended. The sudden burst of activity spurred Akash to his feet too and, finding no weapon around but the wooden stick, he struck it across his head and had him collapse to the ground, unconscious.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For what seemed like an eternity, no body moved. Time stood still. They looked at the motionless figure on the ground and tried to grasp the significance of what had happened.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Is he dead?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘No, he’s breathing.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘What do we do now?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘I have no idea’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘We have to get out of here’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘We can’t just leave him here’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Let’s dump him in the car and get out of the campus’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Yes. When he wakes up we can plead him to let it go. Give him the exam speech or something’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Money. We will have to bribe him’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Let’s get out of here’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘We will never get out of the gates with a girl in the car’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Hide the girl in the boot’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Excuse me?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘You heard me. You are hiding in the boot’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘And him? They are going to recognize him in that uniform.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Oh, I know, hide him in the boot’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘That doesn’t solve anything, Amrita! We only have one boot and two unwanted passengers’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘That is a problem…’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Unless…’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Unless what?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">………………………………………………………………………………<wbr></wbr>………………………………………………………………………………<wbr></wbr>….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They say Man must be careful of what he wishes for: they come true alright but not always in the form expected. Chetan Singh was being subjected to something similar. Observing the ‘oh-so-fly’ demeanor of the college ‘studs’ and the way girls hovered around them, he too had visualized himself clad in trendy denims with tee shirts bearing motifs of popular bands, enjoying the attention of the opposite sex, but only expressing the relish ever so subtly. Tonight, his wish had come true, in a way.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘If he is wearing my clothes, what am I supposed to wear?’, asked Akash, stepping out of his jeans.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘His clothes, obviously’, said Amrita.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘You must be kidding me! I’m not wearing those! Who knows when he had his last bath? He stinks.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘No room for a naked hobo in our car’, said Sanchit.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Not like your clothes smell of sweet perfume. Just when did you bathe last?’, said Amrita, holding Akash’s jeans away from her body as if it were a dead insect.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">So, Chetan Singh became one with the hip college crowd. After all, clothes maketh a man, don’t they? As for his general appearance, the beard, moustache et al, the guys reasoned it would make no difference. Being exam time at the university AND no shave November, even a Neanderthal would have felt at home in the campus.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The next hurdle was getting their illegal accomplice and accidental victim in the car. The victim was easily seated on the back seat. Akash re-arranged his hands and feet to give him a nice contemplative pose indicative of deep intellectual activity. Amrita tried hard to avoid the dark comfort of the car’s boot, suggesting hiding under the seat instead, presenting her relatively petite figure as backing to her case, but in vain.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Now, remember, not a sound from you. No movement.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Be a log.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Yes, be a log’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Amrita resignedly dragged herself into the trunk and adjusted her body inside.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘I wish I could just stupefy you’, murmured Akash.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Petrificus Totalas’, exclaimed Sanchit with the appropriate hand movement.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘This seems to be a situation straight out of a Potter book, isn’t it? Trouble, trouble everywhere’, Akash said to Sanchit as they closed the door down on Amrita and made their way to the front of the car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">………………………………………………………………………………<wbr></wbr>………………………………………………………………………………<wbr></wbr>….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The drive to the first check post was pretty uneventful, much to the relief of the trio. The security guards patrolling the exit were used to students panicking and hovering around in the night during these crucial months and paid no heed to the quiet and contemplative gentleman in the back. The second check post was the final obstacle separating them from freedom and peace. Also, it would not be enough for them to jump on the pedal and go whooshing past the gates; they would have to stop and make an entry into the outgoing register recording their movement.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Akash was getting nervous. His hands, in spite of the cold, were starting to get clammy on the steering wheel. He switched on the radio and then switched it off on account of his heart beating synchronously to the rhythm of Honey Singh’s latest pop number.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Alright, Sanchit, this is it. I will park the car at some distance from the security desk. We will get out, make some story about him… we should give him a name, don’t you think? Hmm, who’s that nerd in our section, the one with the uni-brow?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Champak?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Yes, so, Champak is gravely ill and he can’t come out of the car and we need medicine, okay?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Okay, let’s do this. May god be with us.’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Akash and Sanchit got out of the car and exchanged the customary fist-bump. They had never experienced such bonding before. The walk to the security desk took a considerable amount of time, each step being a task in itself, requiring a handsome supply of courage and self-confidence from the repository the guys had only recently discovered inside them. Also, they had independently decided on theme music to accompany them on the challenge and syncing their steps with the beat required considerable effort. Akash was the first to reach the desk and immediately took hold of the register. Meanwhile, Sanchit faced the security guard (let’s call him Ram Babu) and, looking him straight in the eye, took out his cellphone and had an urgent, imaginary conversation with his mother. Akash could barely conceal the admiration he felt for the bravado displayed by his friend. In fact, his hands shook with pride.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Hey, what about the boy sitting in the car? Call him, he has to sign the register too’, said Ram Babu in a sleepy tone.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘No, sir, actually he is very ill. We are going out to get medicine for him. He can’t come out of the car. We will sign for him’, Akash tried his best ‘we just want to help a sick friend’ face.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Is he too sick to even come out of the car?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘He is resting, sir, we do not want to disturb his sleep. Exam tomorrow, na’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Hey…but…’, the guard was cut mid-sentence by a loud rattling noise coming from the car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If there is any such thing as the soul relinquishing one’s body out of pure trauma, the boys experienced it, rooted to the cold pavement. Chetan Singh alias Champak had woken up and was beating at the car windows like a mad man. Ram Babu was on his feet when Sanchit did something his parents would be proud of till their last breath. He grabbed the guard by his arms and, locking eyes with him, told him, ‘Sir, he is crazy. He needs psychiatric help every now and then. Out of respect for his family, we have not told anyone about this condition of his, not even the college authorities. But, please, let us go now, sir, or else he will keep up with his destructive activities all night and not take the exam tomorrow’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Do you think I’m a fool? I can see what you guys are doing here. He must be one of the sincere students of your class and you just want to spoil his career! Scoundrels!’, Ram Babu detached himself from Sanchit’s grip and started advancing towards the car.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Sir, I beseech you, stop! You know not what you are doing. If you let him out, he might turn violent on you. Last time, he almost bit a boy’s thumb off. Who knows what part of your anatomy he would aim for’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Ram Babu halted and considered the anger ridden face of the guy. He thought he could make out crazy eyes. His thumbs tingled. The mad man was pointing his finger at him and shouting now. Ram Babu cursed and turned to face the boys.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Boys, deposit your identity cards here and be back by 9 AM tomorrow morning. I will confirm the well-being of your friend and only then let you take the exam, understand?’</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Yes-sir, thank you-sir’, and they were back inside their four-wheeled heaven in no time. Akash stepped on the gas while Sanchit wrestled with their crazy co-passenger.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">………………………………………………………………………………<wbr></wbr>………………………………………………………………………………<wbr></wbr>….</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">They say flattery can get you anywhere but they really were talking about money there. Having calmed their new friend down, they had made their way to a Dhaba and were discussing the terms and conditions of their impending separation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Five thousand rupees each and a month’s liquor supply’, said Chetan Singh as he sipped on a masala chai, the requisite accompanying beverage to every important business transaction in North India.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘That is too much, Chetan Bhai, we are only students, after all!’, Akash, though immensely relieved with the turn of events, attempted negotiation.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Oh, yes, innocent students, are we? Do I need to remind you what the consequences of your actions tonight could be if I take it to the authorities?’, retorted Chetan Singh.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Alright, Chetan Bhai, drink your tea’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">‘Oh, and one more thing: I get to keep these clothes’, said the guard, hiding his smiling face in the tea cup.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px;">Akash, Amrita and Sanchit looked at each other’s tired faces and burst out in the carefree laughter only youth is capable of. They had just beaten up and abducted a man, broken at least half a dozen University rules and had an extremely important exam the next day but, for that fleeting moment of pure joy, everything was just as the way it should be, perfect.</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-size: 13px; line-height: 24px;"><span style="color: black;"> </span></span></span><br />
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-26479992735657911332014-05-25T19:29:00.000+05:302014-06-14T21:12:57.630+05:30The circle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The circle<br />
<br />
25-05-2014<br />
19:17<br />
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As I climbed the stairs to my refuge on the terrace, it did not immediately occur to me that this quick run to acquiesce one of Carey's whims would actually be the last time I'm climbing these steps. I heaved a sigh and looked at my old companion. This is it, dog. The next time I'm here, we'll be at a new place. I took in the smell of the light breeze as it brought the green fields to my nostrils and gazed at the sunset scene I'd started depending on for creative fuel. Well, might as well seal it with one last game of fetch with the dog, I mused and sure enough, Carey ran to get in position. So I flung the ball and she ran. And fell. Now, our old girl has been limping off late, the hip is troubling her and I could see the fall had got her right at the weak spot. I rushed to her as she tried to get up. She couldn't put her foot down and was looking at me helplessly. Oh, but she had got the ball. The thing with my lady is, she's a tenacious fighter. Just when you think she's going down, she'd be back up with a punch. And sure enough, as the pain subsided, she put her foot down, walked a bit and got into position again. <br />
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So, you see, the house is indeed getting too old for us now. To a new place and more adventures. <br />
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Au revoir.<br />
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Sent from my Windows Phone</div>
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-16237333241025821892014-05-14T16:25:00.001+05:302014-05-27T08:35:05.189+05:30Welcome me Back<p>It's been a long time since I had a blank page staring at me, waiting for an imprint. I do not know what caused this delay- I always had an idea or two to write about and also the time for it but the motivation was lacking. I was pre-occupied, among other things, by an idea that at first fuelled the creative spirit in me to bring about a huge change in my approach towards writing, only to leave me disillusioned in the end. </p> <div><br>I have often been prodded by friends and family about what I wished to make with my flair for writing. Was I practising for a book, perhaps? Or did I desire to be featured in magazines and newsletters? Or, maybe, to just make that extra pocket money, sitting comfortably in front of a screen? My answer has always been woven around different connotations of 'I like writing'. Then I took a look around and wondered about the many possibilities pointed out to me. It won't be too bad getting my work published somewhere, wouldn't it? Neither would the extra pennies hurt, I reasoned. Have a skill, I'd be better off using it to my advantage.<br> <br>This new found purpose lead to me an online content writing internship and a shot at getting a piece of work published. Which eventually lead to me distancing myself from my blog and all forms of writing I did exclusively for myself. I started to loathe writing: instead of being an outlet for to my emotions and views, it became another source of stress on my work-laden shoulders. As the frustration grew, I realized that I had reached the fearful place we've all been warned about when pursuing a passion: turn it into a form of work and you may find you cannot tolerate it any more. I'm not saying that this is a necessary outcome for any one walking down these roads, but, for me, the stress was quite binding. Also, I've started to feel that though there may be a lot of story-telling and prose-wielding inside me, the books will just have to wait till I am ready to have them, till I am ready to express through them.</div> <div> </div> <div>And so, it ia back to looking for rainbows and acting on my whims. And, if my readers would still have me, back to being a simple-minded blogger. </div><br clear="all"><br>-- <br>Medha Kapoor
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</div> Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-66530912425845229762014-02-01T17:25:00.001+05:302014-05-16T11:16:03.553+05:30Expression<div> <div style="FONT-SIZE:11pt;FONT-FAMILY:Calibri,sans-serif">Expression <br><br>01-02-2014<br>11:23<br><br>Pluck words to capture the essence<br>And in your head <br>Spin them around in rhythm <br>With a dash of secrecy<br> And some selected memory <br>Mix them with an emotion<br>And churn them in the cauldron<br>Of soulful contemplation<br>A phrase or two include<br>For the surrounding view<br>As garnishing to the stew<br><br>So shelve it out<br> For the world to see<br>Here I am: This is me<br>In the garb of carefully construed poetry<br><br><br><< For a better view of this note, tap the attached file. >><br><br>Sent from my Windows Phone</div></div>
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</div>Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-39258261175494722662013-12-30T11:53:00.001+05:302014-02-02T14:26:38.298+05:30"Work"ing your Way<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;">I attempt here to write about the change in lifestyle, opinion and priorities we experience as we step out of college in to the world of fending for yourself and what better time to write about it than on a Monday morning, right after the customary coffee cup.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 14px;">I have been up since five, scurrying around to get ready for the two hour journey that takes me to office from my home. The breakfast will just have to be rolled up in Aluminum foil because getting late is not an option: they will charge you a half day's salary. Besides, you are perennially struggling to beat your supervisor in the race called 'I got here first' and somehow he is always there, sipping his morning tea while you frantically urge your system to boot up and record your attendance.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 14px;"><br /></span><span style="line-height: 14px;">Contrast this with just six-seven months back: I would have lazily albeit unhappily got up at eight, had my fill at the breakfast table because home cooked food is so hard to come by and reached the metro station in a mock hurry. Yes, yes, there would be lectures to attend but who cared if you missed a couple? A well-modulated voice could always mark your presence, anyway. And, then, timings never really mattered. There was no pride to be gained in entering the lecture room before your professor. More importantly, it was all a matter of choice. A crucial (by that I obviously allude to attendance and internal assessment issues) lecture was worth a couple of hours of sleep and hunger pangs... </span></span><a href="http://halfbakedvoices.blogspot.in/2013/12/working-your-way.html">Continue reading</a></div>
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</div>Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-37415243404030309752013-12-25T20:40:00.002+05:302013-12-30T11:57:12.395+05:30Abracadabra: A review<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am reviewing Ruchira Khanna's <a href="http://abracabadra.blogspot.in/">Abracadabra</a> as a part of the Secret Elves thingy initiated by the very lovely <a href="http://indiblogeshwaris.com/">Indiblogeshwaris</a>. The first thing that struck me was, of course, the title. I mean, who thinks of something so unique, intriguing and exciting? Whoosh! Also, it literally translates to 'I create what I speak' in some language (read that on Facebook sometime back). And, well, that is what the posts are all about: the wisdom gained from life and a set of action mantras to keep the magic intact.This was the first time I paid the blog a visit and was pleasantly surprised with the sheer positivism radiated by the content. There are songs, poems, images and write-ups dealing with every thing life throws at you and all of them end on a happy note. It is a good thing that I came across her blog in the Christmas season as it heightened the spirit of festivity for me. :)<br />
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Borrowing from one of her Mantras: "Only a writer has ways to keep his audience fascinated" and that is exactly how I feel going through her posts. You can't just stop with a single post or page, you have to go in and delve deeper, looking for the gems, searching for the snippets of wisdom to take in and keep with you. Then, you may come across a post that strikes a chord inside you so deep that you have to bookmark it and maybe come back to it time and again to elicit that smile. The good thing about Ruchira's posts are that she takes up the commonplace of things: a hard disk crashing, a change of season, a flashy image and weaves her words around them to create something magical. She transforms them to something exciting and forces you to pause and reflect, maybe she'll leave you with a question and have you mull it over while you walk to work or cook. Then, there is the quintessential life mantra in the end which motivates and inspires you.<br />
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All in all, I think Ruchira is doing a great job running an inspirational blog: there are too few of them and god knows how badly they are needed. She writes often which is a great thing for her followers (the newest addition being me). Her posts are concise and direct: delivering the message across efficiently. The blog's layout and design is convenient. Hmm. But if I have to suggest a change, I would be asking her to make previous posts more accessible: the blog archive link is hardly visible. Oh, and also to go with a fancier headline style for such a fancy blog title!<br />
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So, well, here was my little Christmas review for a wonderful lady. Do check out her work, it would make you smile and nod your head in that silly way... :)<br />
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Merry Christmas!<br />
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-15588681483795796942013-11-29T18:59:00.000+05:302013-12-25T20:47:08.593+05:30Ignorance is Bliss<DIV> <DIV style="FONT-SIZE: 11pt; FONT-FAMILY: Calibri,sans-serif">4 Nov, 2013<BR><BR><BR>Sometimes in our lives we defy logic. We act exactly contrary to the rationality a situation demands. You are lonely and scared, but you fill your life with meaningless relationships and emotional detachment. Why? Does it solve any purpose? Maybe denying the existence of a problem works in completely wiping it out of a system. It's like saying, there is no cancer and I will not die. Then there won't be any need for painful therapy. Because, you see, you're dying anyway. <BR><BR>Ignorance is bliss. Don't you see?</DIV></DIV>
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</div>Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-54340667410742135002013-11-13T10:31:00.001+05:302013-12-25T20:45:09.565+05:30A cold winter morning<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I could not have known<br />
Winter would find me longing<br />
For the sight of you again<br />
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Fragments of me you owned<br />
Laden with warmth of my affection<br />
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Needed by me they are now<br />
In this distraught desolation <br />
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To ask for them, I dare not<br />
For seeing you will be hard<br />
But reclaiming remnants of what was, me<br />
Harder still<br />
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-11615870406634801242013-11-01T16:07:00.001+05:302013-11-13T21:09:19.074+05:30Smile<div>It's hard to be sane when nothing is the same.</div> <div> </div> <div>But tomorrow may not necessarily be darker than today.</div> <div> </div> <div>Keep it together.</div> <div>Keep your head high.</div> <div> </div> <div>And Smile.</div> <div> </div> <div>It won't solve any of your problems, but, it will make the battle easier.<br clear="all"><br>-- <br>Medha Kapoor </div>
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</div>Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-78125067525639719682013-10-27T23:19:00.005+05:302013-11-13T20:46:36.421+05:30Death<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On an online discussion group a couple of weeks back (the lovely Indiblogeshwaris), the topic of talk turned hovered around dealing with the loss of a loved one: by death, betrayal or a separation. Everyone had a lot to say about coping with break-ups and betrayals, but death was difficult. For a couple of minutes, I sat back and thought of a meaningful reply, but, nothing came to my mind. That's when I realized this wasn't a topic I could reply to with a single lined witticism or an anecdote with a message. It is one that requires a great deal of introspection.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The first thing I asked myself: do you really ever get over the loss of a loved one? </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The answer is an obvious and painful no.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">There is no technique, no meditation,no counselling and no pill that can purge you of that grief. The void people leave behind is permanent. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I have lost family, I have lost friends. Each death took me by surprise and left me in unsure territory. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">After the disbelief subsides, you reluctantly embrace acceptance. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">First come the memories. Words, caresses, images... There is just so much that can remind you of a person. A cricket match. A song. The moon. It's all very bittersweet. You want to remember the way things were but it also makes you so sad.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">Then comes anger and vexation at the way things turned out to be, a desolation of sorts. The what ifs and if only. </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Then, just when you're trying to go on, you see or read something that reminds you of them and you yearn with all of your being to communicate that thought, but you can't... And it hits you. Grief. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">In most cultures, there is a mourning period the family of the deceased have to observe. I am a huge supporter of this practice. Don the white, relinquish the color, because that is how you are feeling inside. Death is something you just can't shrug off. You need the time off to grieve. You need to cry, reminisce, think and be with the people going through the same. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">But the mourning can't go on forever. At the end of the period, you pick up from where you left off and let life go on. As usual. Things have changed, but, that's how it is. Moving on is always the hardest.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">When someone close to you dies, a part of you changes irrevocably. It could signal the end of a belief system: you tend to question theism or you take to it with an increased vehemence. It could alter the way you looked at life, it most certainly makes you more aware of reality. It might also bring along a huge change in lifestyle. In our scheme of things, we don't realize how much a person brings to our life, till we lose them. We take a lot for granted: the support of our loved ones, the constant care of our parents, our health, our luck...</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span style="background-color: #f3f3f3;">We just take too much for granted. We disregard mortality. And when we suddenly encounter loss, permanent loss, we can't reconcile ourselves with the way things change. Hence, the need for rigorous coping mechanisms.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As time goes on, the ache dulls. You reconcile yourself with reality and get back to routine. The memories will always remain. What changes with time is the way you reminisce. Tears lead to soft smiles and maybe even laughter, when remembering a funny instance or a silly nuance. Yes, there will always be that little glint in your eye when you think of them. That is the real eulogy to the dead.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">"It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live"- APWBD</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">When you realize that death is but a necessity, as real and tangible as life itself, you cease to be terrified of it. You can focus on life better, then. When you know what each day means, you can focus on making it prettier. When you realize how precious happiness and love are, you can focus on spreading more. </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #f3f3f3; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Yes, death is terrible, but so is a life not realized.</span></div>
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-26846971804609968132013-10-19T11:57:00.001+05:302013-10-27T23:23:00.748+05:30The era of the Super Geniuses<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
There comes a time in a blogger's life when he or she is tracked down by peers in the community and requested to contribute to their websites. The occasion, whenever it comes, is extremely flattering. There you thought that nobody was reading your posts except bots, stalkers and humans with sub-human IQ levels, but, lo, not only are people still alive after bearing the weekly assault on their news feeds, they want me to write more! And with their blessings! So, well, after the celebrations subsided, I happily agreed to write a guest post for Half Baked Beans (the publishing house) blog, <a href="http://halfbakedvoices.blogspot.in/" target="_blank">Half Baked Voices</a>. Then came the realization: I hardly have any content going around on my blog, from where will I get enough gibberish for theirs? After a lot of hair splitting and coffee brewing, I decided to take a break and watch House. That's where is struck me: House! Sherlock! Dexter! Why did I not think of these gentlemen earlier?<br />
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Presenting <a href="http://halfbakedvoices.blogspot.in/2013/10/the-era-of-super-geniuses.html?spref=fb" target="_blank">The Era of the Super Geniuses</a>. Enjoy! :)<br />
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-66089677515787622702013-10-13T00:39:00.000+05:302013-10-19T11:58:58.342+05:30My pen<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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13 Oct, 2013<br />
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What compels me to write?<br />
What invisible forces drag me from slumber in the middle of the night to a mad search for a piece of stray parchment and something to impress upon it with?<br />
I am not, by any means, looking for gain- or fame. Most of the times, the re-reading vexes me, giving birth to an embarrassing debate within myself, for, caught in a frenzy, I will pour myself out- only to find a mistake here and a half truth there the next day. It humiliates me beyond bearing to have someone else read me before my eyes- I can't stand the silliness of it all! Yet, every time I see a blank sheet, I must mark it...<br />
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When I went up to my terrace this evening, I saw the half moon, seated comfortably on a silver bed of wispy clouds, it's luminosity heightened by the indigo blue of the sky- and I wanted to write. A scenery so splendid, I had to capture it in words. Maybe, I thought, I could weave a story around it: have a fair maiden look upon it longingly, while, maybe, also wishing upon the evening star... Or, maybe, some poetry would suffice: a quartet of select, almost rhythmic words strewn with imagery and the hint of a metaphor... Or, as I mostly do, I could write about myself, about the countless conversations I have had with the night sky, there is always some wisdom to be found when searching the heavens...<br />
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But why, why the need? <br />
It's almost spiritual. It's a conversation. It's me plunging into the depths of my soul and my understanding, asking and retrieving. It's a search. It's also a discovery. It's meditation. It is a journey. It is an attempt at identification. It is also an attempt to defy identity- to be somebody, anybody, but yourself, to live a stranger's life. <br />
It is purely about creation.<br />
Ideas and ideologies: the pen starteth it all. And what is man without the thirst for creation? <br />
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I'm sure I'm nowhere as near to an answer as I'd like to be, for tomorrow if and when I re-read this, I'll think up another theory...and then another...<br />
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The pursuit, the whole temptation of it, is what fuels the passion.</div>
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-35034520388095791902013-10-05T03:38:00.000+05:302013-10-14T22:27:02.441+05:30Fancy<DIV> <DIV style="FONT-SIZE: 11pt; FONT-FAMILY: Calibri,sans-serif">5 Oct, 2013<BR><BR>Fancy<BR>Like a mesmerizing butterfly <BR>Rests on a nascent dewy bud<BR>The stance not perfected, yet,<BR>Eyeing a dash of color,<BR>Relinquishes it's hold<BR><BR>And the shimmering wings are airborne, again</DIV></DIV>
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</div>Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-75621943579000736412013-10-01T13:35:00.001+05:302013-10-06T14:58:08.304+05:30Release<DIV> <DIV style="FONT-SIZE: 11pt; FONT-FAMILY: Calibri,sans-serif">1 Oct, 2013<BR><BR>Overflowing chalice <BR>Salted water from my eyes fed<BR><BR>With a sigh and a push<BR>Watch it tumble, break, release<BR><BR>A grief unbound<BR>Dissolves in the ever lasting <BR><BR>Its diffused glow, wavers<BR>And Darkness, thirst quenched <BR>Returns to embrace my calm</DIV></DIV>
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</div>Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-5317240744672296302013-09-14T18:30:00.000+05:302013-10-06T13:04:15.117+05:30The Diamond Sword: A review<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Hindustan Times carries an astrology section on Sunday which is based on Tarot Card readings for different zodiac signs done by a very well known Tarot expert. As a kid, I would meticulously go through what she had to say and see how well it conformed with reality. On the upper left hand section of the same page was a small section carrying a note or message on spirituality and wellness by Osho, the 'Zen Master'. The little snippet always brought a sense of calm and serenity with it. So, when, while browsing through Jaico Books' catalog for the month of August, I came across a book on Osho, I ordered it immediately.<br />
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As Osho's followers and most of the well-informed public would be aware, he has never written a book. But, his wisdom has traveled through books written about him and his revolutionary practices. Also, there have been numerous literary translations of his interaction with journalists all from all over the world. 'The Diamond Sword: Rediscovering Meditation, the forgotten treasure of India' is one such translation.</div>
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I must admit it did not quite enlighten me on meditation, the way the title claims to, but, then, you can't really expect a book to teach you meditation, do you?</div>
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Instead, this book is about Osho and his re-discovery of the forgotten treasures of India. Osho speaks at length about the richness of our heritage, about how, while we're trying so hard to imitate them, the West has been going gaga over our knowledge of yoga and meditation. Very Baba Ramdev, you'd say? Hardly so, Osho understand the exact problems that ail our society. He does not wish to go around teaching renunciation and meditation to all and sundry because he reasons, there is no wisdom or enlightenment to be found in poverty. A poor man can only be concerned about finding the next morsel of food, yet alone try to unravel the mysteries of the Universe. It's because of rational statements of the type above that edged me on to reading the book till the end.<br />
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Osho is, as the British government describes him, 'intellectually brilliant'. He targets the wafer-thin moral backbone of our society, the materialism and the clinging on to meaningless icons which hamper us on the path to fulfillment and happiness.</div>
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Sample this: While in the US, Osho gathered a commune of five thousand people in a desert and, over a period of five years, transformed it into an oasis swarming with sanyasins full of love and tranquility. however, the US government arrested him on account of a hundred and thirty six charges.</div>
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Why? He was only a peaceful sanyasin. But, the American novelist, Tom Robbins described him as 'the most dangerous man since Jesus Christ'.</div>
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What is it about his ideology and method that entices such a antagonistic reaction from the governments of twenty one countries? Read the series of books on Osho to find out.</div>
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'The Diamond Sword', available under 'Religion and Philosophy', published by Jaico Books. You can browse for more details at http://www.jaicobooks.com<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; line-height: 17px;"><span style="font-size: small;">'Become Natural, become ordinary, live in equanimity, and do not remain unacquainted with the secret that is hidden within you' says Osho, the Zen Master</span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px;">.</span></h3>
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-28463458429659606872013-09-08T23:19:00.000+05:302013-09-14T18:54:12.110+05:30An apple a day...<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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A couple of weeks back I had an itch. A common place, everyday itch at a not so important spot on my leg. So, obviously, I scratched it and watched a tiny little red bump appear. All normal, everyday events, you might say. By nightfall it had a white head and I cursed and shook my fist angrily at it. A couple of days went by with it becoming angrier looking and gaining in size. I was having a gala time celebrating the mid-week break India's independence earned us and gave it a little lotion. The next day, it started hurting and emanating heat. I knew it was an infection and could possibly spread but acting on my 'no-bacteria-can-harm-me' arrogance, I washed down a pain killer and went to sleep. During this whole ordeal, I had for company a bunch of well-wishers who kept pestering me to see a doctor. Of course my reply to that was always two yeahs and a nod with an inward gladness for having caring people around. But, after a couple of days of pestering, I semi-acquiesced by calling up my mother and giving her an account of the now rapidly expanding wound. She gave me some advice and prescribed medicine, asking me to further visit a doctor whenever I get a day off from work. So, I started the medication and also took to cleaning and dressing the wound, only too glad to have the medico genes kick in. The infection was getting contained and the pain had disappeared, I was so happy on having saved myself on costly consultations. Then Nature unleashed it's fury. I was sitting in office one day when 'it' gave me the impression of being on fire. It burnt and when I removed the bandage to check, the skin was indeed discolored. I'd only applied savlon to it and covered it up, an act, my doctor told me later, that would've worked on an ordinary wound but not on an infected one. The pain I experienced this time was enough for me to pick up the phone and make an appointment with a doctor. <br />
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It is not everyday that a twenty two year old, independent woman staying away from home gets a scolding. So, when the MD, after patiently listening to my story, put his pen down and looked at me squarely before delivering me a sermon on 'how could you neglect yourself so?' He injected me with a local anesthetic and cleaned out the wound. It was deep, around a inch and half into my flesh and equally wide in diameter. It took me six days to gather the courage to look at it. A literal hole in my leg. Every second day I had to visit him to get it cleaned, stuffed with medicine and bandaged. And oh god, did the whole procedure hurt! <br />
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Today, at the end of the second week (it's been fifteen days since my first visit and it still hasn't closed up), all DIY doctor-giri has left my system. No matter now innocent looking the cut or infection or wound may be, I am visiting a professional straightaway. There are only a few things in life that can never be compromised upon, health being on top of the list. No matter what the expense or discomfort involved, it is always better to get professional advice before you end up damaging yourself. The professional always knows better and it never hurts to get some help. <br />
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An apple a day isn't always enough to keep the doctor away.</div>
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6710153571134903450.post-36795717402494812762013-08-18T16:30:00.000+05:302015-07-08T19:19:08.876+05:30A tiny tale for the Hopelessly Romantic<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Emily paused from her reading and looked out the window. It was getting dark. Though she could not see the sun due to the high rise buildings surrounding her apartment, she could make out the orange red hues mingling with the blue as they signalled dusk. Another day gone by. Another day spent in quiet isolation, waiting. It would be two weeks tomorrow since she'd last heard from him. He supposed to call her when he returned from his business trip, but he didn't. Well, of course she could call him too, find out what he was up to, but she had been having doubts lately. Did he really care about her? Why did she always have to be the one to make the effort? She had decided long ago that she would not make it about self esteem and not think too much about making the first move. But this was going too far. She didn't want to seem...desperate.<br />
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Emily sighed as she realized that that was just what she was. Desperate for him. She had not been too keen on the whole dating scene ever since she had been promoted. Work had kept her too occupied. Other than the occasional dinner or drinks routine, Emily steered clear of young dateable men in the city. One lunch with Mark had changed all of that. He had made her laugh so much! Time just flew when she was with him. She wouldn't call it love, she just adored his company. Maybe its just loneliness, Emily, she told herself, get a grip on yourself, put on a nice dress and go out, put Mark out of the picture.<br />
After all, that was the practical thing to do. You can't waste your precious youth pining about one person. Life was just too short. So, Emily got up and walked over to her closet. Her mind occupied with what she'd wore on her last date with Mark and what he'd said about her dress, her style, her laugh, her... She held on to the dress and closed her eyes, trying to clear her mind and focus on her new decision. Sighing, she picked out a bright red dress and shoes to match. The red beautifully brought out the soft brown of her eyes and the dress was sharply cut to expose her dainty shoulders. <br />
'You look delightful', she told herself as she looked in the mirror, permitting herself a little smile of self-adulation. Mark must definitely be crazy, she thought, to turn down someone this good looking and capable. She must have misjudged him, after all, he wasn't all that good for her. Tonight, she was going to find out what else the city had on offer. Her spirits up, she decided on a place, grabbed her bag, switched off the lights, bolted the door...and there he was.<br />
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'Mark!'<br />
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He stood in the doorway, dressed in a casual jacket and jeans, looking utterly perplexed.<br />
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'Emily!... Are you going somewhere?'. There was disappointment in his voice.<br />
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But, Emily steeled herself for the blow.<br />
'Yes, I was just...'<br />
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Emily faltered, looked at his face, looked down at her neatly painted toes and looked up again to find him searching her face. She took a step towards him. <br />
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'Where have you been, Mark?'<br />
Mark dropped his gaze and shifted on his feet. <br />
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'Are you seeing someone?', he mumbled, not looking up.<br />
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'No', was all she said and smiled, in spite of herself. <br />
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That broke the tension in the corridor and the two lovers gave up their garb of indifference. <br />
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' I'm sorry I was away. I was...dealing with stuff...', he offered.<br />
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'Okay...', she said, unconvinced and unsure.<br />
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Mark realized he wasn't making much sense. He took a chance and reached out to hold her hand. The suddenness of his touch startled her. She tensed up and looked at him expectantly. <br />
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'Emily, all I want to say is, I think you're wonderful. Could we make things work out?'<br />
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........................................................<br />
...<br />
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We're so tied up in the race to be self-dependant and strong that we deny admitting to that gnawing, corroding need for companionship. So afraid of being vulnerable, we hide beneath armours of smart talk and being practical. It just takes one tiny glimmer of hope and the resolve comes crashing down.</div>
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Medhahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11745433732351213701noreply@blogger.com10